Devil May Cry
by SophieInk
Summary: Violet's dead. The house is still turning out murder victims like popcorn. But whatever, she deals...The only thing she can't deal with is the Devil. And that's because that beautiful bastard cheats. If she could just survive this recent encounter with her mind, and her clothes intact all could go back to being caskets and giggles. ONESHOT (Tate x Violet, IC, Erotic)


**Title**: Devil May Cry

**Characters**: Violet x Tate

**TV Show:** American Horror Story: Murder House

**Timeline**: After the conclusion of the series.

**Warning**: Expect a bittersweet lemon, cursing, and horror elements.

**Disclaimer**: Don't own the characters. Just borrowing.

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><p><strong>Devil May Cry<strong>

People had moved into the house again.

You'd think they would take the hint what with all the dead bodies carted out of its stained glass jalousie doors on a semi-regular basis. Who the hell owned the funeral home in this neighborhood? Damn the cop. The undertaker, that's who her mother should've screwed. Whoever he was, that fucker was making a fortune. Because honestly, there wasn't enough ground on the face of the planet for all the corpses wheeled out this house. At as it was, the ghosts living in the stark, gaudy Victorian relic were piling people two in a shallow grave.

Granted, she was one of those ghosts, Violet wasn't really considered with trivial matters like pancakes and money anymore. Nope, her sole job was to keep the stupid from moving into a haunted house, affectionately known as "Murder House" by the miserable people in this twisted fucking town. And it was an _utter_ joy. Vivian, her mother, usually handled the adults. Violet's job was to scramble iPods and hide homework. If she had to grab the occasional ankle from beneath the bed, she was working too hard. And really, at this point—after five years and twelve different families, she was starting to question what the point was.

So, what? Greedy idiots looking to make a good deal, the sad and stupid who came in hopes of turning over a new leaf, the lovers, the children, the elderly...

Fuck'em.

Let the house take them. If they really wanted to move into a place nicknamed "Murder House," they could climb into a coffin, because as far as Violet Harmon was concerned their deaths would only leech some of the stupid out of the world. Her mother could prance around with a bullet wound between her eyes, screaming ridiculous things like, "Listen to me!"

Not Violet. The only part of this house she really and truly cared about was the gorgeous piece of real-estate standing in the middle of the basement with a knife pressed to some idiot journalist's neck. She couldn't remember who'd said it, but once, she'd been told that the Devil would be beautiful. That he was God's favorite angel before he was cast from the unwelcome heavens with his dark and damned heart. She hadn't understood it then. She knew who the Devil was now. She knew him by name, by touch, by the strangled sounds he made in the back of his throat when he was naked, sated and shaking in her arms.

Clad in a hideous swampy green sweater, a faded black Nirvana T-shirt, and baggy jeans, she knew him by the bloody figured he cut in the soft light wafting down the narrow stairway into the basement. Spiders crawled across the rafters and rats scuttled in the walls. The scent of mold and death rife in the congested air. She didn't come here. Ever. Not because she was scared. She'd only been scared once in her life and it cost her dearly. The fuck she was gonna shake now.

"Tate," she whispered, and his name burned the tip of her tongue like a naughty word.

"Hey..." His voice was warm, deep. It rolled over her like chills, and she knew from experience that if she hadn't been dead, goosebumps would risen in applause down her arms. Asshole had the voice of a demon. The face of an angel. And Lord Byron's graceless heart. Really? Who the fuck was supposed to stand a chance? "It's kinda been a long time, Vi."

"'Yeah. Five years actually." She wet her lips, eyes flickering over the unconscious woman lying like a skeleton in his arms. "And then, I said 'good-bye' and asked you never to come back into this house."

"I remember, Violet." He canted his head like a cool-blooded reptile and coal black eyes refracted the light. There were bags under his eyes. There were always bags under his eyes. It was like peering into a black hole and knowing no matter how many buckets of blood you washed down the drain, the darkness would always demand more. "Believe me, I remember…"

Tension. The room brimmed with ribbing, pulsing energy. Honestly, she expected tension any time Tate was in the room. He couldn't help it. His presence was the moon blotting out the sun. It was darkness and it was felt. But this…this burning, this sizzling, painful chemistry wafting between them was different. So weird. And so wrong. Didn't he miss her? He loved her. He'd said so. Creep had even written it on her chalk-board the night she'd night. Where were his tears?

_Why do I give a damn again? _For fuck's sake, he had a rusty butcher knife pressed to some unsuspecting woman's neck. The middle-aged blonde's chest rose and fell in deep, even breaths within the confines of the power, blue t-shirt that really should've stayed in the eighties. "Well..." Violet pocketed her hands in the soft, over-sized sweater hanging off her willowy frame, and leaned against the brick."She's not dead." White paint chips and mold flecked the air like spectral dust. "So…what do you want?"

Fire licked in the depths of his gaze as if he really was harboring the sun behind his big, black eyes. "I didn't come here for her." The whisper was so soft it barely reached her ears. "Obviously."

Her throat worked. "What did you come here for, Tate?"

"Violet," he sighed and dropped the woman. She fell in a harsh tangle of limbs, but remained trapped in slumber. "That's a stupid fucking question."

"Seriously?" She curled her hands into fists in the privacy of her pockets. "What did you do to her?"

"Don't worry." Shadows danced over his sensual features. Long nose, wide and moist mouth, he was haloed in oily, sun-streaked champagne blonde waves. He'd almost cut his hair once. She'd asked him not to. And like with everything she asked, her desire was his twisted command. "I haven't hurt her…yet."

"Yet?" Violet's jaw clenched. "Tate."

For a long time, he said nothing. He did nothing. He stood, poised with a butcher knife, and a gangslow smile. There was a languid air about him. A certain grace afforded to a creature who didn't give a shit about karma. "I came for…you."

Four words. Four little, pathetic words.

"Well, you can't have me." She stifled a shudder and offered him her favorite "fuck all" smirk. "You know that."

"Told ya to give it up…" came a disembodied voice from far off into the darkness swallowing the far corners of the basement. Hysterical, screechy, feminine giggle's echoed everywhere at once. "Told ya, told ya, told ya."

Violet ripped her hand out of her pocket and flipped the presence off. "Not in the mood for your shit either, Hayden."

If Tate had a reaction, if he spared anything but Violet a single passing glance, it went unnoticed. One minute, he was standing there with the silence of the grave. The next second, he was he was right there. Right fucking _there_. Trapping her against the brick, his lithe body became her prison. She had the "Murder House" at her back, and its favorite little heathen blocking her front. "Hey, back off."

"You...smell good." The bloody butcher-knife clattered across the slated cemented floors as his cruel slender hands sought her waist and hair. He crushed his lips to hers, eating at her mouth like it held nourishment for him. Like the hunger cannibalizing his soul could only been assuaged with her sighs. Tate was a tidal wave. He came in hot and hard, sometimes. Slow and shy, others. It was unpredictable. One of the many reasons she'd loved him…once upon a time.

Violet's hands sought the wall for purchase as he swallowed every little noise pleasure she couldn't hold back. And she couldn't hold back any of them. Not when he was the one branding his mouth across her skin. Neither could he. Tate melted into her, spine curving as he dragged up off the wall and hoisted her against the hard planes of muscle disguised beneath his grungy, baggy clothes. The house couldn't touch her, he wasn't willing to share.

On the contrary, he couldn't seem to get close enough. He was stealing her every breath, and still, he couldn't seem to get close enough. The musk of wool sweaters, the faint flowery note of his mother's perfume, and raw masculine scent of cedar wood and spice. It felt like suffocating in everything you've ever wanted. It felt unfair.

She ripped her mouth from his. "Tate."

Tate didn't give her a second. He didn't give her an inch. A cruel slender hand slid against her cheek, and he fused his mouth to hers, nibbling on her bottom lip as punishment. Her knees knocked and she lurched out of her arms, scrabbling against him. "Stop."

"Oh, god…" He showered her neck with wet kisses, holding onto her like she was only tether to this world and why it should matter. "…hate me later, Vi."

"I don't hate you." She dropped her forehead against his chest. "I just never want to see you again."

"Violet…" He buried his face in the wash of honey-blonde hair spilling down her shoulders, and crushed her closer as if holding an apparition to heart would keep it from fading. "Violet, Violet, Violet…"

It was an hoarse, earnest prayer. The kind a boy only ever offered one girl ever in life and in death. It nearly broke her heart, but her heart was already broken. It was his. Every little piece was his, but she wouldn't shed another tear for this monster. "Go…" She pushed. "Away."

Tate's hurried sweet nothings evaporated in silence. She could hear his tears. She didn't have to see them to taste them in the air.

"I...will. I'll leave again," he whispered. His hands slid down her spine and burned the small of her back as he drew her hips against his. "I just need…"

She shoved. He stumbled back, and then, she slapped him for good measure. "Get out."

Cheeks wet with tears, he glared at her from the floor like an angry puppy. "Vi—"

"No, asshole." She kicked the knife into the darkness. "You raped my mother."

"I used to rape lots of people," he muttered, and managed to his feet. The look on his face? He might as well have said, 'I used to leave the cap off the toothpaste.'

And once again, Violet was astounded that her first, only, and great love was a sociopath. Not a psychopath. He could play the insanity card when it amused him, but there were no voices in Tate's mind other than his. And his was a sick, twisted—Goddamn it, why was he looking at her like that? The skin on her neck was not his reason for haunting. Her skin wasn't any of his business anymore.

"Go away, Tate." She pulled the lapels of her sweater closed like a security blanket. "I thought you cared about my feelings more than yours. And I'm telling you, I would feel better if you left."

Time stretched its arms wide as they stood with thousands of souls acting as witnesses to their morbid love story.

Standing slouched, Tate was still. His eyes hidden beneath the blond rebel curls, he scratched at the hems of his sleeves. "You're going to punish me forever, aren't you?"

Violet didn't know what else to say. So, she told him the truth. "Yeah…"

He cracked the silence with a hoarse, broken chuckle. "I figured."

"Tate."

It was the last thing she managed to say. This time, when Tate flew to her like a bat of Hell, she wasn't able to stop him. She wasn't able to do anything, but brace herself against the storm. He didn't give her the option. He didn't give her a moment's rest. Just pain. Just passion. The raw, guttural side a man never showed a woman. Especially, the one he loved.

"I can't…" Violet sobbed, laying naked beneath him. She didn't know what he'd done with her clothes. She hadn't even been aware they were being torn off until the icy chill of the basement floor licked at her back and cool air teased the tender flesh between her thighs. "I can't…"

"I can't, either…" Tate hushed her with a deep, brutal kiss, and tossed his last shred of clothing somewhere far away. He sunk between her thighs. Skin against skin. Heat.

She was always cold. Even in death, she was always cold. Not now. Right now, the floor was a balm, and everything else was setting her on fire.

Her entirety was aching. She'd been aching for a very long time. And he was close, so very close. His length was leaving warm, pearly streaks of liquid against her hip. He sunk his teeth in the curve of her throat, hand tightening around her wrists like iron manacles. "Tell me you want me like you used to, Vi. Remember, how I used to push your panties to the side while you were reading that stupid manga shit, and you'd get mad, and then...beg me."

Lolling her head to the side, she hid her face in her hair, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her into Hell. Maybe, he wouldn't be able to reach her there. "Fuck your head games."

"It's not a head game." He dragged his length against her swollen folds. "You know that."

Spine bowing, Violet lurched off the pavement. Her hips jumped, and it took every molecule of her being not to rub herself against him like a wide, wet invitation. Her nails left bloody crescents in her palms as she gaped up at the staircase, wishing her mother would appear and save her from herself.

"Fine. Whatever. Just rape me," she spat. He recoiled, pulling back to study her face. She leveled dead eyes at him and dropped her legs open like a crass cadaver. "Have at it. I don't care. I'm dead anyways."

"Don't say shit like that." Black eyes glittered with unspeakable emotion. "You don't mean it. You'd never—"

"Did you talk this much with my mom?" She felt like an animal the moment she said it, not that she really gave a flying shit about guilt right now. Tate flinched like she'd just slapped his wound with salt. "I can't imagine you got much fucking done with all this conversation—"

"Shut up," Tate snapped and pushed her hands up high, crucifying her to the floor as he stretching over her like a jungle cat. He burned the curl of her ear with a harsh whisper, "And you say I'm sick...but since you asked and I don't lie to you anymore, the Rubber Man never said a word. More often than not, I just kind of let whoever it was screw themselves with me."

Oh, what an asshole. No, really. As if he didn't come crying back to her with fat tears of remorse once a week. Like he didn't beg and refused to speak of the Rubber Man most of the time. Like he hadn't been doing that out of some sick, twisted and so very ruthless compulsion to please the few people who hadn't cut him for the sake of seeing him bleed. Tate's kind of evil wasn't born-it was made. If he wasn't such a twisted prick, he might notice that there was never anything wrong with him to begin with. That he'd never stood a chance. None of them had. The house was victor. Always.

"What, Vi? Nothing to add? How rare."

The sweet, mocking venom in his voice poisoned the air, and she opened her mouth to give the Devil a piece of her smart-assed mind, but Tate's cock found her slip opening, and she went taut. "Don't you dare..."

"Yeah, I know..." He pushed home in one sure-stroke. Seven and a half inches of terrible perfection. "Just hate me…later."

"Tate."

He swallowed her gasp and a bone-deep shudder wracked his body. "Violet."

Pleasure roared in her ears, she was losing sight of the world. He was so deep. So…hard. So…unbelievably perfect. What did that say about her? The only man in the world to ever to set the damaged black sky on fire with his smile, and he was a mandala of every evil she wasn't supposed to love. The heels of Violet's feet dug into the smooth curve of his ass as he flexed in and out of her pussy. Long, lingering strokes like this had to last them a long time. It did. The next time she'd kill him.

"Fuck." She rolled her hips and pressed her open mouth against his neck. "There."

"Again. Say it..." He throbbed inside her, and her walls fluttered in response. "Again, Vi."

"There," she moaned softly, afraid all the angels would hear her. "Right..._there_."

"God, Violet…" He marked her shoulder with his teeth. "Violet. Please."

She didn't even know what he was asking for anymore. It wouldn't have mattered. She couldn't find the words anyways. The world was a kaleidoscope of pleasure. The world-the brutal beginning of it, and the very end-was Tate, and would always be Tate.

Flesh smacked against flesh as he hammered himself between her thighs like he was trying to tattoo "I was here" deep, deep in her soul.

Her breath hitched, "Harder."

"A little wider, Vi." he groaned, and melted on top of her. "Wider."

Chest to chest, mouth to mouth, they rose and fell, whispering terrible dark words to each other. He eventually released his hold on her wrists and she couldn't help herself. She wrapped her arms around him like armor, she let him cry out into her hair. The house couldn't get him there. His mother couldn't get him there. His demons couldn't get him there. She wouldn't allow it.

"Don't." Her thighs shook as pleasure made her quake around him. "Don't...stop."

Tate lost it after that. Holding her thighs, he ate at her mouth and pounded into her sopping, wet and tight and center, fucking her with a ruthlessness that was almost involuntary. The orgasm came fast. Brutal. She wasn't even aware was happening until she clinging to his shoulders, nails biting into his milky skin, mouth open against his throat as she buried her silent cries. His sweat tingled on the tip of her tongue, her body held suspended in time by the devil playing her like a violin. Over and over again. Tate was relentless. Possessed. He wrung orgasm, after orgasm from her body, and somewhere in her addled mind, she wondered whether he was trying to kill her with his love...again.

Eventually, they collapsed. It was a long time before they stopped shaking, stopped crying into each other's arms. And then, when the moment had passed, and all that was left was bruises and the random woman fitfully sleeping a few yards away, she'd pushed him off of her. She'd forced herself to get dressed. She'd made herself take the stairs. "The woman should wake up on her own, right?" At the top of the flight, she reached for the brass knob. "Go...away."

"Hey, Violet…" She couldn't help it, she offered him a look over her shoulder. It would probably be a long time before she'd ever give herself the chance to lay eyes on him. Standing wedged half-way in the light, but otherwise swallowed in darkness, he peered up at her like she was the sun and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. He almost looked…bashful.

Shoots a bakers dozen teenage classmates, but blushes every time he's getting ready to say something he knows she's going to scoff at. What an idiot.

"I...love you, Violet." He offered her a smile. A real smile. Rare. She'd only ever seen them the few times he hadn't realized she was looking. It was a sinister sickle, the kind a Grim Reaper might wear to work, and sunk through her sweater like warmth. "There, I said it."

She lifted an eyebrow. "And exactly how long to do plan on waiting for me?"

Tate chuckled and backed into the shadows. "Forever."

With a heavy heart and small smile, she twisted the knob and disappeared into house's warm faded walls. "Such a pain in the ass."

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><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>All right, folks, I don't normally write fan-fiction anymore. Not because I don't love it, but because I don't usually have the time. Well, I decided to make a little time. I've just recently been introduced to this TV series, and behold, this is the craptastic result of what I came up with. I tried to write the characters as "in-character" as I could. Ah, well, hope you enjoyed. If not...well, that sucks. Either way, feel free to leave me a review. ~Sophie

**Edited**: The story has been edited. Tried to go back and get everything. If I missed stuff, I mind not if it's pointed out. No one likes typos. Hideous things, they are. :-)

**Review Response:** Oh, dear, I don't think Tate continued to rape after Violet's mother. I think it would go without saying that if Violet doesn't allow him to really hurt/kill anyone now that she protects the house, she wouldn't let him...do his "Rubber Man" thing. But it was mentioned that Vivian's mom wasn't his only victim. That's all I was trying to get across. If he was still running rampant, I doubt Violet would've allowed the first kiss, much less anything else. HOWEVER, I did go back through the story and try to make that more apparent. Perhaps, I painted him a little to harshly. Forgive me! Thank you so much for the review though! I'm really glad you liked it otherwise. :)


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